


Sherlock is Actually a Girl's Name

by SkylineStarryEyed



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Baby, Dad!John, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkylineStarryEyed/pseuds/SkylineStarryEyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his wife, John and his one month old baby girl Helen Jane move back in with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock is Actually a Girl's Name

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely nothing against Mary Morstan, her death is canon so I've left it unspecified.   
> (Characters aren't mine aside from Helen)

Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket and hung it beside his scarf on the rack. It had been exactly one week, seven entire days, since the demise of Mary Watson. Sherlock still felt a bit numb. People may fancy him an unfeeling man, but that was not true. His excellent mind merely worked around the pain that he felt. The emotions he was judged for not displaying were either deep below the surface or based on events he couldn’t comprehend socially.

A Study In Pink: (To the dead woman in reference to her loss of a child) “That was fourteen years ago, why would she still be upset about it?” 

Only facial cues told him that was-

“Not good?”

And John Watson answered him back:

“Not good.”

So when Mrs. Hudson broke the news to Sherlock in broken, sobbing words like “Hospital” and “The Watsons” he gained from her tone how to feel; if he had needed it. He hadn’t, of course. John was his best friend and Mary was the best possible choice for him and his happiness so she was good. He had rushed to find his best mate sitting in an empty hospital room holding a one month old baby Sherlock had met only once before. 

“Mary’s gone.” He had said. 

“Dreadful, just dreadful.” Mrs. Hudson murmured beside Sherlock. He hadn’t even realized she had followed him up the steps but he tilted his head in solemn agreement. She moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on and Sherlock let her, knowing that it was healthy to fall into routines when one feels loss. 

His eyes found John Watson’s chair, an object he had removed at one point to try and restore a routine in his life before realizing John was every part involved in that routine. Sherlock excused himself down the hall to his small bathroom and proceeded to get himself high. It only took a moment for him to realize someone had been through his things and all of his drugs were gone. Lestrade, no doubt. Not personally, of course, he attended the funeral as well, but someone under Lestrade’s command. He considered, briefly, smashing the mirror before him in an act of outrage but it was immediately followed by a pang of guilt for Mrs. Hudson who would without question patch him up and replace the mirror.

Guilt.

Empathy.

Sherlock felt things.

The kettle whistled and he went back into the kitchen to allow Mrs. Hudson to dote on him—but only because it helped her. After two hours of sipping tea and making small talk, Mrs. Hudson retreated to her flat and Sherlock went to his coat to retrieve the pack of cigarettes, freshly purchased. He lit one and sat back, taking a long drag that burned all the way down to his chest. It had been too long.

After chain smoking for another hour Sherlock got up and went to his bedroom. He slumped into the bathroom to begin his nightly ritual but after brushing his teeth he didn’t really feel like doing much else. He stripped out of his clothes down to nothing and lay on one side of his bed, gripping the covers and rolling across the mattress to cocoon himself in the sheet.

He would have stayed that way all night if the ringtone specifically set for John hadn’t gone off. He wrestled an arm out of his pod and reached for his discarded trousers to fish the phone out. It was a simple text but Sherlock went over the diction anyway to check for signs he should worry about. 

“Are you awake? JW”

“Always. SH” He replied. He waited, laying half on and half off of his bed, wrapped in his sheet with one arm sticking out awkwardly. Half an hour later when Sherlock had just about given up hope, his phone lit up again.

“I need a new flat. This one is too full of her. Can I come over? JW” The text was too flat. John was never so dull, so straight forward.

“I’ll send you a car. Half an hour. SH” Sherlock sat up and pulled his other arm out of his sheet. First he called Lestrade.

“It’s late, Sherlock, if you’re high I'm having you put away.” Lestrade growled into the phone.

“I need a favor concerning John.” Sherlock stated. “I’ll take a back seat and give you full credit for one case of your choosing if you rally some of your people and help me.”

“Two.”

His call with Lestrade lasted three minutes. He then called Mycroft who was already awake and negotiated with him to get John out of his flat lease and get him paid vacation from the hospital until he felt better.

“I will allow you a ‘brother day’ once a week for six months if you help me.” Sherlock offered.

“For John Watson I would have done it for free, but now that you offer, it’s binding.” Mycroft said before hanging up. Sherlock had known this, but the idea that Mycroft had any amount of interest in John Watson made Sherlock uneasy. 

Within one half hour the doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson answered it quickly enough to show Sherlock she hadn’t been sleeping, but was probably drinking. Sherlock’s heart pounded. This was one reaction he couldn’t comprehend. The idea of seeing John caused such anxiety in his chest that his stomach felt as if it were full of stones. He listened as Mrs. Hudson greeted him in a hushed voice, almost afraid that her volume could break the barrier holding back John’s outward grief. Her door slammed shut after just a moment and John’s footsteps counted down to his arrival. The door creaked open and Sherlock exhaled the breath he hadn’t meant to hold. 

“Hullo.” John greeted him. His face was as gray as it had been eight hours ago at Mary’s funeral. Sherlock Stared, unable to speak, his face as stoic as ever. Finally he nodded like the tin man, coming back to his senses. 

A baby’s cry startled them both and Sherlock cast his eyes down to the small carrier in John’s hand. It had a cover over it to shield the baby from the weather, so Sherlock couldn’t see the child itself, just the pink fleece that spilled out of the seat. 

“Sorry.” John said finally, moving to set the baby down beside the couch. He dropped a small duffel bag and stripped out of his coat before going to the carrier and lifting the sheet. Sherlock tried not to look. He feared what he would see, but he had to. He turned his head ever so slightly to see the baby’s face which was red with effort. 

‘Mary’s nose.’ He thought. ‘And lips.’ But John’s eyes, thank God. And John’s ash-blonde hair. It was okay. She was a perfect mix and Sherlock found himself feeling happiness instead of the contempt he expected. 

“She’s dirty.” John said with a slight panic in his voice. “Sorry, I know she’s loud. I’ve got her diaper bag here.” He stooped to unfasten the baby’s small harness and lift her up against his chest with one arm while stooping for her bag with the other. 

“Babies cry.” Sherlock said plainly. He had never seen John in a domestic setting. He was obviously uncomfortable, slightly clumsy and overly protective of the child. He gripped her too tight to be comfortable and tried to rush with gathering her things, as if he had a time limit to get her changed and quiet. 

“Do you mind if I change her on your bed? I’ve got a, er… what are they called?” John racked his brain. “Plastic blanket thing so she won’t pee on your bed?”

“Changing mat.” Sherlock offered. John nodded erratically before disappearing into Sherlock’s room with the crying baby. Sherlock listened to him plead with her to quiet down.

Helen Jane Watson, born January 18th and weighing at 6.3 pounds. Sherlock had attended the shower and the birth, held the baby and then left unnoticed just as he had left the wedding. That was the last time he had seen Mary and the first of two times he had seen the baby, including that day. 

Right on cue another knock came to the door. Lestrade opened it a minute later when no one came to let him in. He had several grocery bags in his hands and was followed by a team of groggy officers Sherlock barely recognized. 

“What do I owe you?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the kitchen table he had cleaned off. Lestrade set the bags down there and fetched a notepad and pen.

“For John Watson? Nothing.” Lestrade said. “But I’m still taking credit for those two cases.” He winked at Sherlock over the top of the small legal pad he was writing on. 

Men filed into the room carrying things. A folded up baby bed, a folded stroller, a small basinet on wheels, a basket full of stuffed animals, baby monitors and their chargers, a changing table and a peculiar trashcan. Sherlock waved his hands like a conductor, giving orders on what went where. 

John came out of Sherlock’s bedroom then, carrying a now quiet Helen who appeared to be gnawing at his jumper. 

“What’s all this then?” He demanded. “It’s bloody well past midnight.”

“Calm down, doctor.” Lestrade called without even looking up from his legal pad. 

“Is this my furniture?” John asked in a slight daze.

“Yes it is.” Sherlock answered. He was standing on top of the coffee table trying to explain to one officer why a changing table near the window was a bad idea without bringing up Riechenback. 

“My nursery?” John asked.

“Please refrain from stating the obvious. You know how it grates at my nerves.” Sherlock replied. John continued to watch as the men finished up and started to file out. One man stopped, a tall man with dark skin. Sherlock recognized him but his name had never seemed important. He pulled a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to John.

“Sorry for your loss.” He said in a thick cockney accent. “I know you ain’t a cop or nothing, but we took up for you anyway. You’ve done good work for us.” He paused and John’s hand slowly reached out and received the envelope Sherlock had come to understand contained money.

“Thank you.” He said, barely audible. 

“No problem.” And he was gone, leaving John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and the baby. John turned around slowly, his body on autopilot and Helen’s tiny blue eyes scanned the room. Sherlock waited for him to say something, his face was blank of emotion. He fixated on the crib which was still folded up and leaned against a wall. After what seemed like hours of silence Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Well, this is everything I can remember.” He said, holding up the legal pad and dropping it on the table. “Every emergency number – categorized of course, little tricks that help them sleep, a list of essentials to stock up on, and my personal number. I grabbed a few things in case you didn’t have them, can’t imagine you going shopping this soon. The number with an angry face drawn next to it is Sally Donovan who has been told to drop whatever she is doing and go get you whatever you need at any hour of the day… She pissed me off at work the other day.” He shrugged. “And of course Molly’s number if you didn’t have it, both work and personal. That should do it.” He rocked awkwardly on his feet. 

“Thank you.” John said again. Lestrade shrugged. 

“No problem… Sorry for your loss.” Lestrade crossed the room and clapped John on the shoulder, whispered “good luck!” to the baby, and was gone. Sherlock felt the room close in around him and John. Helen had begun to fall asleep, her head lolling comically to the side. 

“Thank you.” John murmured.

“No trouble, hardly lifted a finger.” Sherlock responded immediately. He swallowed. “The remainder of your things has been sent to a very nice storage container until you’re ready to sort through them.” Sherlock crossed to the couch and sat down. At the end of the couch was the basinet, plush and pink and white like a small princess carriage. Next to the television, a safe distance from the fireplace was the changing table and the peculiar trashcan. The room had changed already.

“She won’t sleep through the night.” John said. He was hardly speaking over a whisper. 

“Place her in the small bassinet. I’ll sleep out here and tend to her.” Sherlock offered. John actually cracked a smile and Sherlock’s heart jumped into his throat. He began to itch below his jaw, sweat beginning to form there. Another reaction he just couldn’t comprehend. 

“Have you ever held a baby?” John asked. 

“Once. This one.” He gestured to Helen. “Support the head, refrain from drop kicking it, I’ve got the basics.”

“Please stop referring to my daughter as an ‘it,’ Sherlock.” John said, but the smile had cracked a bit wider and Sherlock was on a roll. 

“Honestly, keeping a baby alive for eight hours is not the largest challenge I’ve ever faced.” He argued. John thought and after a moment, nodded. He placed Helen in her tiny princess carriage and pushed the blankets down. 

“No loose blankets.” John said, his eyes trained on the baby. “The short cry means a dirty diaper, the long one means she’s hungry. Sometimes if she fusses, she just wants to be held, other times she has gas.” His eyes welled up with tears and he took a deep steadying breath.

“I’ll watch over her.” Sherlock said. John nodded, his tears streaming down his face and dropping onto Helen’s small green onesie. 

“Come get me if you need me.” He said. “She’ll probably wake me herself.” He reached down to grasp one of the baby’s small, fragile hands for a moment and then turned to go into Sherlock’s room.

The door shut softly behind him and Sherlock was alone…  
With a baby…  
Which he knew nothing about.


End file.
